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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082497">Since the Beginning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeriKG/pseuds/MeriKG'>MeriKG</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Protective Sibling Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, first kill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:13:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeriKG/pseuds/MeriKG</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester once told his brother that Dean had always put him first.  That was true in more ways than Sam will ever know.  John Winchester decides it's time for his eldest son to step up his hunting game.  13-year old Dean really doesn't want to.  But since when do the Winchesters ever get what they deserve?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Since the Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Short but not particularly sweet.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I can’t do it.”  </p>
<p>Dean stared up into his father’s face, anxiously scanning his father’s expression for his reaction to his admittedly desperate declaration. </p>
<p>A soft whimper filled the prolonged silence following his pronouncement, the muffled sound choked out around the rough leather strap wrapped tight around the ghoul’s mouth.  She’d been gnawing at it since being strapped to the table, and given sufficient time would manage to chew through.   Not that she had that much time.</p>
<p>The petite brunette gazed over at them through wide, teary eyes, her expression begging for some kind of reprieve.  Dean firmly reminded himself that if she’d just stayed in her graveyard she wouldn’t be in this position, and that she’d personally killed and eaten two people that they knew of.  Probably lots more.</p>
<p>When his father had found her, she’d already killed the old couple the Winchester’s had been following and cut most of the vital organs out from their fresh corpses, arranging each piece neatly onto a fancy dinner plate.  She had even used little green sprigs for garnish.</p>
<p>This was hardly Dean’s first hunt; he was thirteen, after all.  Plenty old enough to act as backup, sometimes bait, depending on their need.  It was easy when all he had to do was stand there and make silly faces, pissing off their target while his dad came up behind them for the kill.  </p>
<p>But this, this was totally different.  This was a human-looking person chained to a table, tears streaming down her face.  Dean looked down at the gleaming machete in his hand; he knew exactly how sharp it was, that in one chop it’d all be over and done.  This monster wouldn’t be killing anyone else. </p>
<p>But he couldn’t do it.  </p>
<p>Dean looked helplessly back up at his father, hoping John would say it was okay and Dean didn’t have to do this, that he’d take care of that last, brutal killing chop.  But he knew better. </p>
<p>John frowned at his son, calm understanding in his dark eyes.</p>
<p>“I know it’s terrible, son.  But you have to do it.  This is who you are, who we are.  You’re a Winchester, Dean.  A Hunter, like me.  We do the hard things; we kill the monsters so the rest of the world can be safe.  You remember Mikey, yeah?  You talked to him in the playground.  Remember how sad he was?”  John pointed over at the blood stained table and its innocent-looking occupant.  “That monster killed his grandparents, Dean.  It clawed out their hearts, and set up a pleasant picnic for her boyfriend.”  </p>
<p>Said boyfriend was long beheaded, body burnt to ash.  John had dealt with the large male, leaving a scent trail more than clear enough for the she-ghoul to follow.  She’d come right to them, easier than pizza delivery.  </p>
<p>At the time, Dean hadn’t understood why his father had ordered a capture rather than kill, and he wished he still didn’t.  He couldn’t cut the head off a girl chained down to a table, even knowing what she was.  She looked so human.  </p>
<p>John waited, expectant.  </p>
<p>Dean sighed and dropped his blade carelessly to the filthy barn floor.  Refusing to look his father in the eye, he turned and walked away.  He listened intently for the faint swish of a blade, confirmation that his dad had finished things.  Despite not hearing the telltale thud of a head rolling, he was sure the she-ghoul was toast, a bloody smear in the hay on crumbly old barn’s floor.</p>
<p>He stared up into the bright sun; squinting at the garish light and pretending it was the blinding brightness making his eyes tear up.  He heard his father come up behind him, felt an arm around his shoulders.  Dean leaned into his father, closing his eyes against the glare.  </p>
<p>“It’s okay, son,” John told him gently.  “I’m asking a lot of you.  Taking a life, even that of a monster, it should be hard.  But it has to be done.  Just think about it, okay?  The ghoul is still strapped down, nice and tight.  It’s not going anywhere.  We can try again tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded mutely.  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.  But he wasn’t all that surprised, either.  When John Winchester decided on something, he was relentless.  Dean stayed there, pressed against his father until John released him, and the two Hunters walked back through the overgrown meadow towards the old motel and the littlest Winchester.<br/>**************  </p>
<p>When Dean woke the next morning, he was alone in their motel room.  Rising, he found a bag of cold fast food on the table with his name neatly written on the greasy paper bag.  Dean quickly dressed and nuked the food in the motel’s dirty little microwave.  He’d gone to sleep with the ghoul’s sobbing face on his mind, the image following him into sleep.  In his dreams she’d been gag-free, begging him not to kill her.</p>
<p>A note on the counter, written in his father’s neat hand, told him that he and Sammy were out back and Dean should join them after breakfast.  Dean made himself eat, then trotted out back in search of his family.  </p>
<p>The crappy, broke-down town they were currently occupying was tiny.  The cheap motel on the outskirts of what little population comprised the farming community was the only available housing.  Currently, the Winchesters were the only people currently taking up lodging at the ragtag hotel, and the owner/entire staff for the 10-room facility was busy working on the plumbing in one of the little cabins.  Dean knew this because the man had been complaining about the leak non-stop during their admission. </p>
<p>Dean passed by the main office, noting the ‘out to lunch’ sign on the front door, the same way he noted everything around him.  It was automatic, part of the training he’d grown up with.   The sign was important.  It meant no civilians to get in the way or bear witness, and less potential hostages.  </p>
<p>He trotted out to the back area, past the Impala, the sight of the ancient Chevy soothing and familiar.  He patted the car gently in passing, noting that it could use a good washing.  He really liked doing it, as odd as that sounded.  He liked anything that had to do with the classic vehicle.  His dad had taught him how to change the car’s oil a few years ago and since then he’d been hooked.</p>
<p>Dean could remember the lesson well; it was one of his favorite memories.  Tiny Sammy playing on a thick quilt in the corner while Dean and his dad lay flat on their back on little wheeled boards under the jacked car, his father’s calm voice teaching him step by step how to place the oil pan, remove the cap…Dean smiled to himself at the thought.</p>
<p>Dean trotted out farther into the dusty field when he didn’t see Sam or their dad near the car.  It didn’t take him long to find them.  John was crouched next to his youngest son, patiently teaching little Sammy how to hold a pistol steady in his small hands.  The weather-beaten old fence several feet away held half a dozen upturned soda cans.  </p>
<p>Sammy was smiling brightly, reveling in their father’s undivided attention, thrilled as always to be included in anything.  He thought the can shooting was just a game.  Dean’s stomach knotted.  He recognized this scenario; he’d been there himself not all that long ago.  When shoot-the-cans was just innocent fun.  And he knew what came next.  </p>
<p>No.  Not yet.  Sammy was just a little kid.</p>
<p>Dean stared at the scene mutely.  Sam was so young.  He still believed in Santa, for cripes sake.  It was too soon.  Too soon to bring him into this world of blood and danger and monsters.  Dean couldn’t let his Dad do this to Sammy.  But what choice did he have?  It wasn’t like he could stop his father.</p>
<p>Dean glanced east, back towards the old, beat down barn and its nightmarish occupant.  He swallowed, bile rising in his throat as a terrible solution hit him.  Maybe it would work.  It was the only play he had.</p>
<p>With a quick glance back at Sam and his father, Dean ran back to the impala.  He opened the trunk, standing on the bumper so that he could get into the hidden compartment.  Once he’d gotten what he needed he hopped down, securing the trunk.</p>
<p>It was still early, but already shaping up to be a scorcher of a day.  The shade of the barn was welcome after his sprint through the muggy Midwest morning.  They’d stayed in Missouri a bunch of times, and as best as he could remember it was always humid.  Dean sucked in the sticky air, filling his lungs, trying to purge the nerves burning through him.  His breakfast hadn’t been that great to start with; he was sure it would taste worse coming back up.  </p>
<p>His eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the barn, blessedly shaded from the harsh sunlight.  As far as he could tell, nothing had changed since yesterday.  The ghoul was still securely bound to the sturdy apple wagon-turned-table.  Her wrists were a bloody ruin, evidence of how hard she’d fought to get free through the night.  Dean could have told her not to bother; when his Dad tied something down it stayed stuck.</p>
<p>He glanced down, eyeing the wickedly sharp machete clutched tight in his sweaty fist.  He knew the weapon, was trained in handling it and had sharpened the blade himself.  John had put him in charge of weapons maintenance as soon as he developed the dexterity and know-how to field strip a six-shooter.  He’d liked the responsibility, found it fun; and felt a sense of pride in knowing his dad trusted him to this important job.  Absently, he wondered if he’d feel the same way next time he performed the task.</p>
<p>Dean eyed the ghoul warily.  Her fingers were claw-like and sharp, for all that they looked human.  She’d turned her head when he came in, eyes locking onto his.  Damn.  She’d managed to chew the gag out overnight.  </p>
<p>“You’re back,” she told him, her tone vulnerable and weak.  “Will you save me?  I didn’t do anything, I swear it!”  </p>
<p>It was a lie.  Really convincing, but still.  Either she didn’t know that Dean had assisted in her capture, had seen first hand what she’d done to Mikey’s grandparents, or she thought he was just that stupid.  </p>
<p>Dean didn’t answer her; he had nothing to say.  He watched her eyes skate past his face, landing on the machete dangling from his hand.  </p>
<p>Her innocent blue eyes widened.  “No!  Please, no!  I didn’t do anything! Don’t hurt me.”</p>
<p>Dean swallowed.  He couldn’t do this.  Just like yesterday.  Then he remembered his little brother, the gun held tight in his too-small hands.  </p>
<p>Dean took a deep, calming breath; burying the emotions churning through him, allowing cool resolve to take its place.  He had a job to do.  He eyed the ghoul’s position, the way her head was stretched from her body by the heavy ropes.  He blocked out the sound of her voice, her words distant and insignificant, while his world narrowed down to the narrow stretch of bare skin between her head and shoulders.</p>
<p>He strode to the table, ignoring the ghoul’s sobbing.  Gripping the leather-bound handle with both hands, Dean raised blade.  The she-ghoul screamed as he brought it down with all his strength, driving the wickedly sharp machete blade through flesh and bone, neatly severing her head from her neck.  Dean flinched as hot blood splattered him, thick, wet droplets dusting his face and arms in a warm mist.    </p>
<p>The ghoul’s head held its place for a moment, almost comically, before casually rolling off the cart, bouncing onto the floor with a sickeningly wet ‘plop’ and rolling several feet before coming to a stop.  </p>
<p>Time restarted as reality came crashing back.  Dean dropped the heavy blade, bending over, hands on his knees as he vomited breakfast.  He’d been right; it didn’t taste nearly as good coming back up.  Tears stung his eyes, his throat burning from the bile as he continued to dry heave long after his stomach was empty.</p>
<p>Shaking, Dean slowly stood back up.  He reached down, taking the bloody machete in hand.  Never leave a weapon with prints at the scene of a crime.  And the ghoul’s headless-body looked all too human.  Dean didn’t look back, didn’t so much as glance at the tangled dark hair of the ghoul’s head where it had settled in a patch of old straw. </p>
<p>Dean walked out of the barn, into the sunlight.  He took his time heading back, swiping absently at the occasional bug that tried to land on his blood stained face and arms.  He felt numb, his mind refusing to acknowledge what he’d just done.  Dean was pretty sure if he tried to think about it, he’d just puke again. But none of that mattered; he’d done what he had to do.</p>
<p>His dad and brother were in the same place as when he’d first walked by, several of the cans now on the ground.  John stood from his crouch, turning at the sound of footsteps.  His eyes locked with Dean’s, taking it all in.  The bloody machete fell from Dean’s weak grip to the ground.</p>
<p>“Sam, I need you go to back to the room and stay there, okay?  Practice is over for today.”  Sam started to protest, but John scooped him up and carried him back to the hotel.  Dean was pretty sure his brother hadn’t seen him; he hoped so anyway.  He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. </p>
<p>It seemed like seconds before John was back, sweeping him into a strong hug, ignoring the bloody mess.  </p>
<p>“I did it,” Dean told his father tonelessly.  “I killed the ghoul.”   </p>
<p>“I can see that,” John told him.  “I wish you’d told me you were ready; I’d have gone with you.”</p>
<p>Dean was kind of glad his dad hadn’t been there.  It wouldn’t have changed anything, anyway.  Now though, Dean clung desperately to his father, desperate for reassurance for the brutal act.  “She won’t hurt anyone ever again,” he told his dad, seeking some kind of solace in the words.</p>
<p>“No, she won’t,” John agreed, squeezing even tighter.  “You did a good thing; a necessary thing.  You saved lives, Dean, by killing that thing.  I’m so proud of you, son.”</p>
<p>Words Dean strived every day to hear.  But not now.  They seemed…empty.  Or maybe that was just him.  </p>
<p>Dean looked up into his father’s warm, concerned gaze.  “I’m a real Hunter now, Dad,” He told his father earnestly.  “I can kill with you.  You don’t need to teach Sammy to hunt yet.”  </p>
<p>He saw the moment John finally understood what was going on in his son’s mind.  And if Dean had been older, he might have noted the flinch, understood the shame that filled his father’s expression, before the older hunter firmly locked it away behind a wall of stubborn determination.  </p>
<p>“You’re right,” He told his oldest son.  Gathering Dean close, John stood.   “You are a blooded hunter, now.  Sammy doesn’t need to be a part of things.  For a while.”</p>
<p>Dean was too shattered to catch the nuances.  All he heard was that his little brother got to stay a kid.  Because on some level Dean knew that the last remaining dregs of his childhood had died back in the old barn with the decapitated ghoul.  </p>
<p>“I think you’re a little shocky,” John told his son, guiding him gently back towards their hotel.  “Let’s get you into a warm shower so you can clean up, and I’ll get us some food.”</p>
<p>Dean didn’t know, didn’t care, if his father knew that he’d thrown up.  He walked mutely back to their room.  John ushered him straight back to the bathroom before Sammy, sulking in a corner at being robbed of his time with Dad, could notice the state his older brother was in.  </p>
<p>Dean passed by the mirror on the way into the shower, noting the gory red freckles of tacky blood spots peppering his pale face.  He showered until the water ran cold, only getting out at his father’s summons.  Once he’d stepped out, John took off in search of lunch.  Dean walked back into the living area, dressing quickly.   Sam was sitting there waiting for him, arms crossed against his chest, his face scrunched with anger.</p>
<p>“You did it on purpose, whatever it was!” He declared, full of all the wrath an eight-year-old could manage.  “That was my time with dad and you were jealous so you stole it!  I hate you!”</p>
<p>Sammy stomped away to his chair in the corner, huffing angrily as he opened a book.  </p>
<p>Dean sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the thick dots of blood still coating his bare arms.  Strange, he could have sworn he’d washed it all off.  Dean blinked and they were gone.  He glanced over to where Sam sat, determinedly ignoring him.  Dean didn’t blame his brother for what he’d said.  </p>
<p>Right now, he hated himself, too.</p>
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